


Blue in the Face

by LelithSugar



Series: Bloodied Up  - the 'Perverts in Love' Consensual!AU Thramsay [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Consensual Violence, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, If you think this has a happy ending... you're right well done you, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ramsay is his own warning, Safe Sane and Consensual, Smut, Some Humor, fixing upsetting plot points by being ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9215369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: AU in which Ramsay and Theon's dalliance is (mostly) safe, (debatably) sane and entirely, absolutely consensual: the version we are presented in Game of Thrones is the version the Dreadfort is lead to believe, because Ramsay has realised that he can absolutely keep a pet boy as long as nobody realises the pet boy is enjoying it...Partially he'd learned to play along so well out of necessity,  their game only as safe as it was believable,  but partially it was because he wanted to, because Theon was one of those rare and perfect connoisseurs of pain and fear.And nobody did pain and fear quite like Ramsay Bolton.Basically if the whole Theon thing upset the hell out of you, and you'd like it made better and would also like thousands upon thousands of words of bdsm smut, this is the series for you. In this installment, we stumble upon how some of the more notorious stories end up circulating.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't spend this fic waiting for a horrible twist... I am not GRRM and will not do that to you. That said, it does get a little rough so if you're upset by, or really don't get, sadomasochism, this probably isn't the story for you... but absolutely no dismemberment, I promise. 
> 
> This diverges, in show!verse, just after Dagmer knocks Theon out and hands him to Ramsay as the Bolton army take Winterfell. Also I've kept them back at the Dreadfort because... I like the word Dreadfort, mostly (it's like the ASOIAF equivalent of 'cellar door' for me) and because Ramsay wants all his kit. 
> 
> I make little to no apology for how daft this is: it makes me happy. Apologies, it's unbeta-ed.

 

The footsteps that had been heard encroaching down the corridor towards Ramsay Bolton's living quarters halted sharply when Theon cried out, his usual stoicism giving way to a tearless sob when he tried to breathe through the whipping he was taking so admirably. Ramsay let him wail all he wanted. Why stifle the screams he worked so hard to draw out of him? The gods knew it took more effort the more practice he got. Besides, it always did the staff good to have a little reminder of what he was capable of, and he was answered with the sound of the footsteps retreating: scurrying off to spread more morbid fascination, no doubt.

Ramsay gave himself a moment to admire his creation and bask in the pleasant exertion of the beating. Stretched taut across the well-seasoned wooden saltire he'd had hauled up from the dungeons to his bedchamber – and oh, he was still grinning at the cringes that particular request had elicited from the staff – Theon's well-defined muscle stood proud on his outstretched, glistening arms and curved over his tense shoulders, asking to be bitten into. His ribs were heaving as he breathed heavily, slowly, pacing himself through the pain, and his strong legs were spread wide for balance, unrestrained and starting to shake. There was also the not-insignificant work of art Ramsay had just made out of his back: twenty of his best lashes scarlet and dripping over a lattice of partially-healed older cuts and bruises. The initials carved into the scant meat at the back of his hips that had healed cleanly, beautifully into livid pink lettering were set amongst a more random scattering of bite marks and heather-purple finger prints, and the flesh underneath flexed smoothly as Theon shifted for comfort in his restraints... relative comfort, at least. The sight almost made Ramsay's mouth water.

 _Poor Theon_ , they'd all been thinking, when Ramsay had so openly chosen him for the personal and private attentions of his hands, his pocket knife and the gods only knew what else. Could there be a worse fate than becoming the plaything of a Bolton? They'd seen Ramsay's other prisoners, seen the Greyjoy boy himself deteriorate quickly from cocksure challenges into gibbering obedience, seen him sitting by Ramsay's feet like one of his dogs but with additional poker brands and ligature marks, and they'd connected the dots to form a very elaborate, grisly tappestry.

And that image was no accident: it was graphic and bloody and typical and it was utterly, utterly wrong.

Theon's voice, low and rasping but mirthfull, broke the silence. “Are you going to stand there admiring my arse all night, or are you planning on doing something about it?”

Ramsay strode across to grab Theon by the hair, yanked his head back and gave him a bruising kiss. He pulled away just slightly, smirking. “You know, that kind of cheek is is exactly how you came to be in this mess.” In truth, he couldn't remember what excuse he'd come up with this time, but it probably wasn't far off the mark. He brought his fingers slowly up the curve of Theon's backside, savoring the feel of the tense flesh, swiping up a trickle of blood that was running down. “Now, are you going to behave yourself, or do you want another twenty?”

Theon chuckled against Ramsay's lips and wriggled before bowing his head again, falling back into his well-rehearsed obedience. “No M'lord. I mean... yes m'lord. I mean -” There was a soft, earnest deference and desperation in his voice that he'd never have been able to manage without sarcasm out of character, but he'd learned the role so well. Partially that had been out of necessity, their game only as safe as it was believable, but partially it was because he wanted to, because Theon was one of those rare and perfect connoisseurs of pain and fear.

And nobody did pain and fear quite like Ramsay Bolton.

Satisfied by the vivid, squirming mess he'd made of Theon, Ramsay put the crudely but efficiently modified lash down deliberately close to the doorway where no attentive servant could possibly avoid it, particularly when they were all so intent on looking at the floor all the time. It was a shame, really: they missed most of his best handiwork, and Theon just loved people getting a good eyefull of the state he was in, but he supposed it showed a healthy level of trepidation. The scrap of oil cloth he'd used to seal the lash and then to wipe off the blood that had been splattering him on the back-swing went in the pile too, all settled neatly beneath the chest on which his knives were laid out on top of their roll in an order that nobody would want to know the logic to, gleaming in the candle light. He wasn't actually planning on using any, just then, but they were pleasantly conspicuous and he enjoyed the way Theon kept glancing over at them with a mixture of honest fear and dry-mouthed excitement.

He remembered that look from when Theon had first caught his eye: he had exactly the sort of smile Ramsay liked to wipe off a face, and in all honesty he'd been looking forward to using some of his more inventive techniques to do so. But the first time he'd actually had the opportunity to wrap one bow-seasoned hand around Theon's throat, the ironborn turncloak had looked him dead in the eyes, something glinting there that bade Ramsay to allow the boy to just push up against him and he was _hard_. It was either the bravest, the stupidest or most astute thing the lad had ever done... and considering his history none of those would have been any mean feat. Ramsay was still not sure if that look had been accidental and lucky, or a staggeringly highly-staked gamble but it would have steered events down the same course either way. The first time Ramsay had taken Theon had been at knifepoint, out of absolutely no necessity for keeping him compliant, and from there, certain... _arrangements_ had needed to be made, and their affair had blossomed into something entirely more recreational.

It had been a fortunate turn for both of them because, contrary to his well-crafted reputation, when his lusts were spent Ramsay was as partial as the next man to a mug of spiced wine and a body to share his bed with. A warm one, that still had arms, and preferably the inclination to wrap them around him. Which had proved awkward, because although the apple had fallen further from Roose Bolton's particularly twisted tree than most people assumed, it hadn't miraculously turned into a pear, either, and people who begged for more when others would beg for mercy happened to be few and many miles between. Finding one as utterly depraved as Theon Greyjoy – and the smirking wretch hung out across that saltire was all Ramsay's best and worst dreams delivered in one twisted, willing parcel – was not something he'd ever allowed himself to count on, but now he had it, he wasn't minded to let it go. He was good at not letting people go, unless he felt like the hunt or the clout practice, so that had worked out just as well, too, considering that freedom meant inevitable and grusome death for the outcast prince and simply letting him saunter off to make a hash of something else with a smile and a fresh horse was hardly an option for the bastard of the Dreadfort either. Very tidy. Ramsay was not a fan of loose ends.

Of course, nobody had really turned a hair other than the ones they couldn't control on the backs of their necks when he'd had shackles and cages brought in so that he could keep Theon close whilst he... did whatever he was doing to him. Their imaginations were sick from years of conditioning, tainted by violence: they weren't about to sift the improbable truth from the more likely picture it was so close to, particularly when it was more or less exactly what it looked like, save for a few gratuitously gory embellishments and the very important difference that Theon had expressly and enthusiastically asked for every last twist. And it was the way he so skillfully played his eager complaince off as broken-minded fear that pulled it all together. Had he ever needed the extra coin, Ramsay would have been hard pushed to know whether he'd have recommended Theon become a mummer or a whore.

Theon bristled under Ramsay's gaze in the silence, squirming to the extent his restraints permitted, half due to a surge of the lingering pain and half for the arousing discomfort of being stared at, appraised, in the half darkness. Ramsay had left him there just long enough to really set him on edge and watched as the chill of the room drew up tiny bumps from his skin whilst Theon breathed deeply and savoured every tingle of the bruises forming, blood drying, his muscles twitching in unconscious preperation for a fight he had no intention of putting up.

It wasn't just the pain, either. Whilst Theon's body thrilled at harsh touches, at cuts and bruises and force, his mind pinned his arousal on threat and humiliation: not only on being made to submit, to take the abuse and to comply with Ramsay's every obscure and awful whim but to be seen doing it. Dragging his cruelly enforced servitute kicking and screaming... or so conspicuously, pitifully failing to... into the court's public eye had been predominanly Theon's idea. Ramsay was naturally and immediately posessive of him and Theon's response to being so openly owned and used by someone notorious for their perversions was ecstatic and beautiful. Like the boy himself. Wanton and incorrigible, so deliciously eager for whatever Ramsay felt like dishing out and once in a while surprising him by suggesting something worse.

Ramsay absently rubbed the heel of his hand over the aching hardness behind the lacing of his breeches as he ran his eyes down to the tense curve of his thrall's backside. The muscle there tensed and jumped, once, deliberately, and Ramsay swatted it with his open palm.

“Pack that in. It won't earn you special treatment.” It was a bald lie. Theon's arse had quite plainly managed to distract Ramsay from all sorts of things in the past and he sincerely doubted he was the only one. And Theon may have moaned a little too warmly at the slap but it did the job of stilling him, knocking him back into breathy silence, the hold of his weight into his shoulders speaking of obedience once again.

The buckles holding Theon's wrists loosened easily enough in Ramsay's skilled hands, but Theon curled his fingers around the leather straps to hold himself up even once he'd been released: he knew better than to move until he was told to. Reprimands for not doing as he was instructed, or expected – and Ramsay did not always make it clear what he wanted, because where was the fun in a game you could win just by trying? - could be playful or painful, but Theon had had enough that it wasn't worth pushing it at that moment. Sometimes he liked to be good... and if those times were mostly when he knew he was in for trouble anyway, then it was only because he enjoyed pretending that he'd fail no matter how hard he was trying almost as much as he loved the thought of whatever degradng and horrible punishment was waiting for him at the end of it.

Theon found himself wrenched around and pressed back against the wood in one heavy movement. The suspense was broken, replaced with a surge of excitement, the delayed thrill from the whipping filtering gradually through the sharp pain. His mind raced with the threats of Ramsay's proximity and the extended silence: time spent thinking about what to do to him often yeilded agonizing results, and he had asked for that, after all. Ramsay's face was all hot, dark menace even though his hands were light, walking tentative, playful touches over Theon's collarbones as the leather straps were closed around his wrists again. Theon squirmed backwards into the cross, doing his best to appear frightened and beaten for his own enjoyment as much as anything even though arousal was evident in his heaving ribs and stiff prick, and he couldn't resist tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The oiled wood stung a little against the raw skin of his back, but the lashes were evenly spaced – the touch of a true artist – and the wood was cool once his weight was pressing on it evenly. The controlled bloodloss hadn't been enough to detract much strength from his erection, and the burning of his shoulders combined with the cold gleam in Ramsay's eyes as he calmly checked the restraints and stood back was enough to stoke Theon back to full hardness.

With the pain radiating through his back and his arms out of action Theon was helpless, and nothing had ever made him feel alive quite like that. Ramsay could do anything to him, Theon would not have been able to stop him, and the knowledge of that was a thrill he'd found no equal to in all the years he'd been conscious of his dangerous tastes. Survival instincts had always limited his indulgence and he tried not to dwell on how their total, beautiful failure had lead him to be here or how differently the story might have played out: he was safe, but in the heat of the moment when he looked at Ramsay he saw his strength, his reputation, the flash of a knife in those ice cold eyes, and he could let himself believe it. It sent him wild. It didn't matter that he had his words to use, not when he'd been so well flogged and was bound and helpless: at that moment Ramsay could hurt him, worse than he already had with that gods-awful whip he'd twisted and split to get the best noises out of his well-practiced victim; could take any one of those knives to him; could haul his legs up and fuck him right there and then... Might, even, if Theon was lucky but, truth be known, luck wasn't always what he wanted. That unpredictability within the scope of his terms was what kept the edge of fear sharp as Bolton blades themselves, kept Theon cowed within his own eagerly voluntary subservience: potter's clay for Ramsay to do whatever he pleased with, and to love every moment of it. But that wasn't to say he hadn't learned when to keep his mouth shut, and instead of the unspecific impact he'd subconsciously braced himself for, Ramsay held his gaze as he pressed closer.

Theon returned the look determinedly, as patiently as he could manage through the throbbing wracking his body, whilst Ramsay wrapped a steady hand around Theon's throat. His groan was cut off by a firm grip.

If Theon had been about to make some smart remark, he lost the ability to draw in enough breath to voice it very quickly. The squeeze of Ramsay's hand around his neck set his blood aflame, made his head swim... the closeness of him, stripped to calico and woollens but composed, handling him as though it was inconsequential despite the hunger Theon knew his own eagerness brought out in him, was maddening. He knew Ramsay had to be caving under his own desire by now, could feel his arousal through the press of his body and he might have even guessed that this was the beginning of his reward for such dutiful, enthusiastic complaince with his beating if the lack of blood to his head hadn't reduced his world to a stopped-moment of writhing anticipation.

Theon couldn't stand it. He pushed his hips forwards, desperate for contact and for once Ramsay didn't make him suffer for it: there was a hand around his cock, one deftly restricting his breathing just enough to send his body into the final stage of desperate, panicked arousal when a creak stole their attention and...

...there was a manservant standing in the doorway, gawping.

Mercifully, the man had briefly looked down to see what he'd stepped on and found it to be blood-slick rags and lovingly hand-made weaponry but unquestionably, stupidly, he had looked back up and there was no way he could have failed to notice that Ramsay's hand was wrapped around his notoriously mistreated pet's cock. And that was where the serf froze.

Ramsay faltered so briefly that even Theon barely noticed whilst he stilled his hand into a careful grip, before picking his voice up a notch half way through a hastily assembled threat.

“...really, because once I've done that, I'll be slicing this clean from your body and feeding it to whichever of my dogs is quickest off the mark.” A mad, feral grin which was part panic, admirably disguised as delight at his own genius. Really, whatever else would have he been doing but threatening the worst mutilation a man could face? “No. Not the dogs, I'll... I'll have it sent to your father. See what the driveling old cunt thinks of how his son and heir measures up once I've made some adjustments.” The look of desperation that flicked so quickly through Ramsay's expression as he flailed to outdo himself would have been enough to knock Theon into hysterics if the rest of his delivery hadn't been so sharply convincing. Theon tried to widen his eyes into encouragement but managed only an involuntary whimper of surprise through his nose. Ramsay was babbling. “Which might be unfortunate, because if I forget to make sure the dogs have eaten before I turn them out to let them fuck you, I might not be able to stop them licking the wounds clean, and what use are you going to be to me when they've finished?”

There were a couple of cavernous seconds of silence, followed by the clattering of bowls being laid down with shaking hands, a stuttered attempt at grovelling and then the interloper dropped the door to slam back into place and ran. The cold knock of boot on stone stair was faster than it should have been and surprisingly didn't end in a trip and rattle that would have resulted in a broken neck and made the whole performance for nought. A second heavy door banged, followed by a flash of hastily-hushed commotion outside that said that story was going to be everywhere by the morning.

Ramsay heaved a sigh that ended in a laugh, dropped his stiff shoulders and briefly considered an apology, but Theon's bottom lip had stopped shivering against his teeth and... no, Ramsay was not imagining that: Theon's cock pulsed with renewed fervour.

 _Seven fucking hells, I've found a live one here._ As if he'd ever doubted it.

The ponderous moment between the coast being clear and any further movement raised the prickled hairs on Theon's skin that had become a conditioned response to Ramsay's terrible ideas. He was caught in the swell of arousal from the pain and the choking but the sudden panic and the following relief had swept him sideways. He floundered between the levity of the ridiculous interlude and the dark, hungry tension he could still feel curling between Ramsay's body and his own. Sure enough, Ramsay pulled away with a deliberately furrowed brow and a look of calculated thought. Clearly, simply getting away with it was not going to be quite enough. It never was.

“You know, this does mean we're going to have to bloody you up a bit.” A feigned expression of thoughtful concern, split by that awful smile. “Can't have you sitting by my feet preening and looking all pretty when I'm supposed to have been working you over. Whatever would they think of me?”

The grin that spread across Theon's face in return was spiked with something near evil, and if Ramsay lived to be a hundred he swore he would never tire of the boy's enthusiastic perversion. He wasn't sure if it was the threat of visible damage or the offer of parading him before the court, so obviously debased and broken in, that was inspiring that particular flash of twisted glee but either way, he'd do his level best to ensure it was properly rewarded.

Ramsay balled up a loose fist.

Distracting Theon ever-so-briefly with a tender touch to his chest, he stepped forward and knocked a soft but solid uppercut into his jaw: the effort was rewarded with a sharp clash of teeth and a grunt which sounded like it might be more frustration than pain. Theon opened his eyes slowly and squared his bodyweight between his arms again, relaxing his weight in a way Ramsay recognised as an invitation.

Smirking, Ramsay stepped back. “More?”

“You know what I can take.”

Ramsay quirked an eyebrow; Theon dropped his gaze down and adjusted his tone.

“Yes m'lord. If it please you, m'lord.”

“Better.” Ramsay ran his forefinger of across his knuckles, deep in thought as he clenched his right hand into a more solid fist. The second punch was higher and harder, connecting with Theon's left cheekbone and instantly reddening the eye socket, promising to bruise and raising that electric tingle of pain that Theon could never quite get enough of. His moan might have been the beginning of a tease, if Ramsay had let him finish it.

The back hand that followed split Theon's top lip on his teeth and whipped his head sideways. By the time he re-centred himself, he was already tonguing at the blood dripping from his mouth.

“Ravens?” Ramsay enquired gently, seriously, and Theon frowned for a second, sucking at the inside of his cheeks.

“... Perhaps.” A deep breath. “No. One more.”

Ramsay grinned, drew his whole body back and threw it behind a solid punch that would easily have cracked Theon's nose if he hadn't aimed it slightly to the side, smashing into his top jaw and cheek, grazing his own knuckles on Theon's canines. Ramsay waited until Theon's flickering eyes steadied on his own to slip his tongue out and lick their blood off his hand, and was answered with an earnest, heated sigh.

Theon leant forward and spat a reasonable mouthful of blood onto the floor, a little surprised when none of his teeth readily went with it. At least one was on its way out and it wouldn't be the first to fall to his inability – or refusal – to know when to stop, but fuck, if that singular demented light in Ramsay's eyes wasn't worth it every time. And the pain, deep and heavy, was the kind that sayed with him for days as little flashbacks that distracted him whilst he leaboured at random menial jobs round the keep; twinges of residual aches that instantly became pleasure on the remembering of how he got them; lasting marks and feelings that kept him in a heady, sensual daze, ready to throw himself at Ramsay's every whim. But he knew when enough was enough, and above the grinding ache in his back, the blood pooling under the skin against this cheekbone felt cold and tingly, and he'd reached the point at which the throbbing ache of his arousal outweighed all of it.

“Ravens.” And before he could sigh the rest of the breath he'd dragged in, Ramsay was flush against him, holding Theon's body weight up up against the wooden frame with his own, one slick hand around Theon's cock and his nose pressed into the sodden curls at his hairline.

Snaking one arm around Theon's abused shoulders and pushing their bodies together, Ramsay panted raggedly against Theon's neck. A nip, a long lick that gathered up all the sweat that was gathering in his clavicle and finished in a hot, dark laugh in his ear. “This is safe, don't you worry your pretty head.” He began to move his hand, stepping up his pace quickly when he noticed just how close Theon was and what a pronounced effect his fists had wrought on him. “Your face though...” He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Your eye is black right down to here.” He touched his nose against Theon's cheekbone and even that soft nudge drew out a whine of pain. “Your lip is bleeding badly. Might need a stitch in it.” Ramsay knew he was on the right lines because Theon's cock twitched in his hand and he was whimpering, although it was possible he didn't know he was doing it, so he went in for the kill. “And not a scratch on me, so everyone will know you didn't even put up a fight. That you just let me do it. You know, the last time you looked like this I heard one of the cooks say they reckoned I took my pleasure of you... or, over you, it might have been... _after_ I'd knocked you out.”

“Ahh. Ramsay, I need... I need...”

He was absolutely sure Theon had no idea what he needed at that moment, so he settled for biting as hard as he could into the already bruised flesh where his neck broadened out into his shoulder and reaching his left hand around, shoving three fingers into Theon's mouth, twisting them to pull at the inside of his cheek like a fish hook and digging in.

Theon came hard and readily, his proud cock straining in his master's hand as his body rattled against the restraints. What might otherwise have been a moan came out only as a hot, ragged breath muffled by Ramsay's wet fingers and a few moments of wringing bliss before his weight collapsed into his restraints.

Knowing he'd be coming down quickly, Ramsay supported his pet under the arms as he slipped the leather cuffs free of their buckles, careful not to catch any fresh wounds on the seams of his undershirt. Predictably, the searing throb in Theon's face and the slices across his back were not quite enough to distract him from the wrench of having his arms returned to his sides, the grinding in the joints leveling out the last spasms of his cock and the tingling flooding his body, and he was immediately a boneless, whining bundle in Ramsay's outstretched arms.

As carefully as he had the patience for, Ramsay set Theon down on the bed. He lay next to him for a while, murmuring comforts, idly palming his own cock as he traced Theon's bruises with a careful finger, pressing occasionally just to see what the reaction was. When it was favourable, he pressed harder, gringding his fingertips into the centres of the marks. When the reaction was a wince, he dug his nails in for a proper, searing pinch and chuckled warmly when Theon groaned, but comforted him with soft, closed kisses and the undenible endorsement of his own excitement.

Theon drifted briefly into a heavy, tingly sleep, or else lost consciousness for a few moments – he was neither sure nor really concerned with which. When he came round, Ramsay was standing at the foot of the bed, absently cleaning under his fingernails with the back of the tip of his belt knife. He'd stripped down to his smallclothes and had apparently been waiting until he had a responsive audience, which was uncharacteristically kind of him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Wonderful.” he sighed and wriggled. “Sore.”

“Oh good,” Ramsay responded conversationally, too quickly: obviously what he was going to say regardless of what Theon's answer had been as he dropped the knife to the floor and grabbed him by the ankles, yanking him bodily to the bottom of the bed in one harsh pull and flipping him over with another.

Immediately bent over Theon's back, and burying his face in his damp auburn hair, Ramsay whispered harshly into the back of his neck “...because if you think I can take you to the hall looking nearly this presentable after that little charade, you've not been paying attention.” That raised the hairs on Theon's back. He became acutely aware of the promise that Ramsay's erection nudged into his bottom and the threat in his chuckle. “So I'm going to fuck this lovely backside of yours, and I'm going to make sure there are teeth marks right here - ” Ramsay grazed his mouth gently over the back of Theon's neck, eliciting a full-body shudder, “ - so everyone knows it, and you're going to at least pretend to struggle...” He wrapped his hand around as if to cover Theon's mouth but instead wiped his fingers through the blood that was drying in a trail down from Theon's bottom lip and smeared it up the side of his face, “and when I throw you on the floor and come on your face I'm going to make damned sure that covers you as well, and you will not be allowed to wash it off before I take you down there and let everyone see the state you're in. Yes?”

Theon laughed chalkily into the furs gathered under his face, the beginnings of an erection lagging way behind the heat in the rest of his body as Ramsay pressed against his backside.

“You're a sick fucking bastard, Bolton.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to RileyOut for the patience and the gorgeous Emphysematous who will notice her influence in more than one way somewhere in this.
> 
> There are a few more of these, varying in the humour/plot content but almost all more BDSM/Smut heavy than this one... yeah, this was the extent of the Plot, the rest is just the PW-. So if that's something you feel like you might like, stay tuned, and of course comments/suggestions and whatnot are welcome. I've not written in years so anything that helps, improves, stokes the fire or whatever is completely welcome.


End file.
